Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee
by ThePatheticProfession
Summary: After a Native American curse is put on America, he is forced to confront his heritage and faults. England races against the clock to relieve America from the curse before something dangerous happens.
1. Chapter 1

On June 20th 1890, Oscar Wilde wrote his first and only novel called The Picture of Dorian Grey. It first appeared in an American magazine and, for some reason, left a bad taste in England's mouth. He would've never heard of the story but the company he was in (_friends would you call it_?) loved to gossip and discuss current events and drink tea. Well, of course, it _was_ the Victorian age, the very decade that decided to dub England the title of the gentleman of Europe. And that was a very different view in which England never in his life had the pleasure of receiving. France liked to call him the black sheep of Europe. Others called him a hooligan and a delinquent. But now as empire of the world, it was easier to make people have a more positive opinion about you. As long as those Charles Dickens novels didn't circulate around too much depicting the scum of Britain, England was often now associated with class, intelligence, and dignity. It was a title he never thought he liked having. And he did want to keep it that way.

He instantly asked about the story after hearing its harsh criticisms on him, the United Kingdom.

"It's a dreadful story," one had told him.

"It's vulgar," another said. "The author should be prosecuted!"

"Why is that?" England was instantly interested. It seemed to have become a very British thing to gossip nowadays…

"Well, where to start? I suppose with the whole homosexual tone that presents itself throughout the story…and the criticism by some chum about our decadence…"

That was all England needed to know. After raising his glass of tea to take a sip, he started to wonder, however, if he was being a little too _(what had France called him the other day?) _crude?

Well, why did it matter? France was no better. He was the British Empire, the most powerful country on the earth. If he was being that way, number one, that had to be a good enough reason. And number two, he wasn't too crude. The world just hated the passing of power. That's when England stopped thinking about the matter altogether.

Then America had brought the book up.

It was when America and his boss had meet up in Britain to discuss to the current small dispute between England and Venezuela over land. It wasn't too much of a necessity for America to show up, it just seemed like routine meetings with their bosses and, as far as England knew, America wanted nothing to do with him. He could tell as soon as he laid eyes on his former colony that the boy was dragged there by his boss and could even tell America had put up a fight about it. Well, whatever…what else did he expect from him?

England didn't remember how it happened, but they both ended up being alone as both their bosses went off to chat secretly. Awkwardness filled England's body and he didn't know what to do. Should he talk to America? Did he have to offer something? It was only routine that he did it whenever other nations visited…

America seemed to have had it figured out though, as he sat on a chair, reading a book and took no particular interest to England's presence what so ever. And he sure as hell never bloody well _tried_ to talk to him. From the moment England saw America, the youth had adverted his eyes from him.

_What a child…_England thought, having nothing else better to do but sit down next to him awkwardly and think. _I remember when he used to kiss my hand as a boy whenever he saw me. Now he's still sore over what? The…revolution? That was around a hundred years ago…that dispute in 1812? Well, I suppose that is something to be sore over…_

England was still thinking when, out of nowhere, America started to _talk _to him.

"Have you read this book?" America asked.

"No," England said, not turning to even look at it. _Why is he talking? _He thought. _Just stop talking, I don't care if you don't like me…it was better this way, wasn't it? _

"I think the guy who wrote it was British…"

England's head swirled towards the novel, now very confused. _Why would he be reading a British book? _

But then he caught the name of the title and then snorted. _Dorian Grey. _By Oscar Wilde.

"The man who wrote it was Irish."

"So, isn't he British?"

England couldn't help but sneer and have that parental tone in his voice as he answered, "There's a difference between being British and Irish."

As soon as he finished the sentence, he knew had gone too far. It was a tone he knew America _hated_ and now, looking back at it, did seem a bit harsh.

But before he could even begin to open his mouth, America had stood up quickly and walked away. England just watched, his stomach turning over. _Alright, maybe that was too much…_

He felt anger, confusion, embarrassment, guilt, and sorrow all at the same time. He didn't know which one was the proper emotion for this moment…Well, no use getting hung up about it.

But it did stay enough in his mind the next few months for him to start reading the novel. He also grew more and more curious. The press around it was very keen on making everyone know it was an abomination and fellow Englishmen seemed to believe it. He had to give them props, they were pretty accurate in knowing what he would think. But now it was the time to see if they had been right.

It only took England a week to finish the novel and the great empire couldn't stop his heart from swelling with love for his people.

_They're always right _he thought. _They can read me like a book. _Well, they _were_ him in a way. But their opinions and outrage were not out of place, in his honest opinion.

_This book is horrendous, _he thought. _And just to prove to myself that we, the English, aren't too crude and know a thing or two about what great literature is, I'll be the bigger man and ask that yank what he thought of it… And I'll prove to that git who the bigger and more mature person is! _

But a lump instantly started to form in England's throat as soon as he thought of the idea. _America? How did that thought even come about? The boy hates me…maybe I won't ask him I suppose…_

During those months, England never came face to face with America or even heard much about him after that particular incident. _The boy has his own problems to deal with, and I, my own_ he thought. And that was the end of it.

But fate conspired otherwise. His boss would soon be meeting America's again for another discussion about that damn Venezuela and some stupid doctrine named after a president. He had asked England if he was to come with but England tried at first to decline.

"Russia is in America at the moment as well," his boss said. "I implore you to start rebuilding whatever bridge you burned with him…"

Russia? Their relationship was still on the rocks, going back and forth every few decades.

"I don't think now is the time for it…" he said.

"It would be better to do this as soon as possible."

England thought for a moment. His boss was right. The British Empire needed allies at the moment, and Russia was growing stronger and stronger at an alarming rate. It wasn't smart to get on that man's bad side, which is what England had kind of been doing for some time now. Maybe he could give Russia the book as a token of friendship. God knows he didn't want it. And he knew Russia did like literature.

As soon as England and his boss arrived in America, they were greeted by the harsh winter. It seemed even the weather in this goddamn country disliked him. England stayed with his boss in a upper-class village in, what the locals called, a Victorian style home. England had no ill will towards America's people anymore, but it was hard not to laugh at what they considered Victorian. America was very modern and it was amusing to see it becoming something it really wasn't. Europe that is.

Hadn't his founding fathers, those rebellious yanks, said they didn't want to be like Europe?

It was all amusing now.

The day finally came when England would have to meet Russia and he had been dreading it. Not only because of the long ride to where Russia was staying, which would take around a two hour ride, but also because he just did not have anything prepared to say to him. How did you go about trying to get allies? It wasn't impossible, but he knew it couldn't be achieved in one meeting.

His boss had stayed behind. Something about Russia and England needing to be alone, sorting out their own problems and what not…But he knew it was really because even his boss didn't want anything to do with the man. Russia was huge and intimidating. In the carriage ride there, England couldn't help but think ill thoughts towards his boss, representing him like this. A coward. England was no pansy. He wouldn't let Russia make a fool out of him; he was the British Empire and the ruler of the world. Why should he be afraid of anyone?

Anybody who tried to stand up against it would meet their downfall. _That is except…_

England signed as he heard the single trotting steps of the horse pulling the carriage and looked out the window.

_Why did he agree to even come here? _He hated Russia, there was no way they could ever become friends, so what was the point? But England knew deep in his heart what his real goal had to be. Why he had agreed to come to _America. _

_There's no use in trying to get around this thing anymore_…England thought. _We can't be like this forever. We have to start being on good terms. It doesn't help that we'll see each other for hundreds and hundreds of years to come. The anger is just out of place and useless…it's also tiring. We have to start getting along. Getting to know and support each other. It only makes sense. He is my son…_

_When was the last time I ever called him that? _

He tried to remember…but it had been so long ago and he had been successful at getting rid of almost all those memories from his mind.

_I can try to bring up the book when we meet again…but knowing him, he probably loved it. That won't do any good…we are in enough hot water as it is. _

His carriage made its slow journey towards where Russia would be staying, a small cottage in a nearby village. After about a half an hour, England started to curse himself. He really should've put on something warmer.

_Why is it so damn cold in this country lately? _England thought to himself. _It must've always been this way and I suppose I've forgotten…_

He brought his fist to his chin and realized it was the first time today he was actually seeing his surroundings. Now that he looked at it, he was happy to have been in his mind for so long. There was something ugly about this place…and also something extremely depressing. Even the trees looked like they were shivering whenever the wind blew.

_Why can't I remember it being this cold? I've had been here enough times to experience all four seasons…yes, I remember it being winter, I remember seeing snowflakes here and they were beautiful…but why have I forgotten it being this cold? _

Something about this upcoming winter was off. And as they stretched further and further on, England tried harder and harder to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Something was wrong about this place, he could feel it. But what was it? The trees, the snow, the silence, the wind…?

Or maybe it was nothing….

This wasn't his country after all. Maybe it was all in his head.

And then the carriage stopped. England hadn't even noticed.

"Sir."

England flinched and then realized they were not moving. And what's even more, his servant was right at his window, looking at him concerned.

"Yes, Stuart?"

"Are you alright?"

Did the man have eyes on the back of his head? Did he know what England had been thinking?

"Of course. Why did we stop?"

"I need you to see something."

England watched him walk out of view. Now alert of the situation, he came out quickly and looked towards the path where the horse was facing. It wasn't as unusual as it had been before. The pathway was still a muddy mess, snow in various awkward places, and the sky was still white. The trees had not lost their somewhat ghastly black color and only a few leaves on the ground still had their autumn color.

"Look down," the coachman said.

England looked. At first he saw nothing. But then saw specks of something dark and pretty soon more pools of it were spread along the path. Blood. He bent down to take a closer look.

"What is this?" He asked his coach.

"Look over there," the man pointed towards the trees. England looked again and then saw more blood spots leading off into the woods along with broken branches, making the snow such a red color.

"Get my pistol," England said. As his coachman went to retrieve it, England started walking towards the woods, his eyes transfixed on the blood. At first his heart was jumping but then, as he started to think rationally, he started to calm down. _It must be a deer _he thought.

"It's just some wounded animal, calm down," England called over his shoulder to his servant. "It's hunting season. I'm sure that's all this is."

He began to walk back towards the carriage but then stopped when his servant spoke up.

"There's a base over there, sir." he said.

England looked directly at him.

"What do you mean? Like a military base?"

"An American Cavalry is stationed very close to here…"

England looked back at the ground, trying to sort this in his head. Well, perhaps that made sense…if that was true, they shouldn't be around here long between the two fighting forces. After a long hesitation, England said, "Let's keep going."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes."

"What if someone's hurt?"

"It's none of our business."

The man opened his mouth but, probably remembering who he was talking to, closed it quickly.

"Yes sir."

The coachman walked back to his station but for some reason England felt planted to the spot. He looked back again towards the woods and suddenly felt the sting of curiosity started to creep into him.

_It's none of our business _He had just said. But it was America's….

"I'm going to go take a look," England said. He started forward, not even bothering to look back when he heard the surprised voice of his coachman.

"You want me to come with?"

"I'll call you if anything happens."

He slowly crept into the woods, following the small blood splatters. At some points, there would be none around what so ever. But soon he would find some again and they seemed to definitely be leading somewhere. He studied the snow, trying to figure out if his first suspicion was right. But the ground was also covered in dead leaves, making it almost unknown to anyone who would've crossed into these woods.

As he looked up, he noticed the trees branches looked like thin, dark, fingers ready to enclose him. There was nothing but white and a dark brown. A very dark brown. Colors that, for some reason, didn't go together in England's mind. He tried to stop thinking. _Always this thinking, never focusing…_

It didn't take long for him to suddenly spot a body.

England instantly froze, not so much out of fright, but out of knowledge. He had seen plenty of bodies littered on the ground before, this was no different. The question wasn't what happened at this moment, but if anyone else was _around _here. Was anyone pointing a gun to at his back? After a few seconds of no sound or movement, he decided to take a closer look, being careful to still be quiet.

England could see, even from a few yards away, the eyes of the victim where half way open. The body, which appeared to be that of a middle aged man, was lying in an awkward angle, the arms and legs bent strangely. His uniform was ripped in various places and his chest area, in particular, was covered in blood. A small gun lay a few feet by him, accompanied by more blood and a darker redder snow.

_Yes, this had to be a solider…_

But England's mind began to race. _Was America at war with anyone at the moment? His civil war was over, wasn't it? _Yes, he was sure it was. It had ended decades ago in fact. Well, England didn't know much of _that _matter anyhow.

He unlocked his eyes away from the body and decided to investigate further.

He only had to get a few yards away to finally see some out of place color hidden behind some trees. Something a dark orange…fire?

He went towards it and, out of the hundreds of trees, came into an opening. It was campsite with about two light brown tents and some gear, tools, and personal items lying right next to it. The only sound was that of the fire surrounded by pans that looked like they had been used very recently.

England went closer to the tents and gear, inspecting anything he could as to see if they had been ambushed. But the tent and…everything else looked unusually fine. The only thing really unsettled seemed to be the violent footprints in the snow.

It was what first told England that something was very _wrong_ here. In all his years of life he knew what it looked like after someone sneaked up and attacked you. People would be dead, sure, but all traces of the victim's origin would be destroyed. Things would get burned down, personal items thrown about or stolen, and everything would be ransacked. It didn't matter if it was a village or a military base. For some reason they were all the same. But to England it seemed like the point of this ambush was just murder. But then again, that's always the point.

England walked around the tents and saw another body lying face down in the snow. A man also dressed in blue, with small dabs of blood, leaves, and dirt over his back and body. England didn't care to turn the man over or even take a second look; the scent smelt like everything around the area was dead. There was no point in checking. And it wasn't upon himself to even touch the man.

His eyes were still stuck on the body though as he walked further away, only the sounds of his shoes crushing the snow adding to the moments intensity England was almost revolted by himself at how fascinating he was finding the crime scene. When had this been so interesting? Maybe when it wasn't happening to your own people…

England stopped for a second and stood, letting his sense alert him to anything if he heard or saw it. But no one seemed around…so perhaps he didn't have to be careful anymore. Maybe he could investigate more?

But something in head told him that this was enough. The scent of death was too great now and he shouldn't have to deal with looking at these things any longer. It did no good to the mind at all the longer you allow yourself to be around unsettling things such as this. It wasn't his business anyway.

When he met up with America next, he would tell him.

Then, as he turned to the left, he spotted America only a few yards away lying in the snow, nude, battered, and beaten.

NOTES

**On June 20****th**** 1890, Oscar Wilde wrote his first and only novel called The Picture of Dorian Grey**

When this novel came out, apparently there was a lot of criticism from the British press and, as the man said to England, it was mainly due to its criticism of 18th century England. It did have homosexual themes, but they were soon edited out of the story all together.

**As long as those Charles Dickens novels didn't circulate around too much depicting the scum of Britain, England was often now associated with class, intelligence, and dignity. **

I'm more or so referring to Oliver Twist here. England did have a lot of, I guess you can call it, "secret" low lives of that time.

**It was when America and his boss had meet up in Britain to discuss to the current small dispute between England and Venezuela over land**

Venezuela Crisis of 1895

**His boss would soon be meeting America's again for another discussion about that damn Venezuela and some stupid doctrine named after a president. **

I'm talking about the Monroe Doctrine that basically states that Europeans weren't allowed to colonize new lands in North America anymore and if they did, America would get pissed.

**Russia is in America at the moment as well," his boss said. "I implore you to start rebuilding whatever bridge you burned with him…" **

Apparently England and Russia weren't the best of friends during this time. In 1853, they battled each other in The Crimean War. And then there was this war scare between them in 1885 and then…they got along during the Boxer Rebellion…

I don't know…you know I'm getting all of this from wikipedia…

Remember! This is fanfiction, not a history book! I'm bound to get _something_ wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

The second England made that connection in his head that the body only _looked_ like America, he was running. It didn't matter if he was perhaps too far away from the body to judge properly. The only thing he _needed_ to see was that hair, that facial structure, that body… Without any thoughts going through his mind whatsoever, he was sprinting towards his son. It was like there was nothing else in the world, just him and pale body that laid within twenty feet of him, but still so far out of his reach. Something in his head was saying _no, no, no _over and over again, _no, no, please, god…no…._

Someone had to be in the trees, watching this, playing a trick a him. Maybe America himself. Because America wouldn't be out here alone in the woods like this. Because England couldn't have found him at that exact time, at that exact moment. Because his eyes couldn't be right….

Or maybe it was someone that just looked _too _much like America and he was already making a fool out of himself. Yes, that was it. He would get to the body and it wouldn't be America, but some other American citizen that had been attacked. Yes, that had to be it.

But he still running.

When he did get to the body he dropped to his knees and, for almost a second, froze up like a sheep as he took in the sight. He was right the first time, it was _America. _He had been right…

America was laying on his back, with his head and one of his legs turned to the side as if to try one last effort to move before he became unconscious. There was only specks of a disgusting purple color all over his body, but there were two that stood out more; one shaped like a boomerang on the right side of his chest and the other on one of his lower thighs. But there did happen to be a lot of cuts and deep puncture wounds that his body was littered with, mostly over his torso. The most disturbing part about it was when it got to the snow, causing it to become a even lighter red, as if forcing it's viewer to know of it's presence. But out of all the wounds and blood that were over his body, England's eyes seem to be directed to one thing. It was the only thing that made him have to think twice to know if this really was his America…

The boy had a dark brown beard and moustache that gave him a very man-like appearance. England had _never _seen America with a beard. He remembered his growth spurt and the hair soon forming onto his face, but it was always shaven off. England had taught him that because he looked more like a gentleman. Now he looked like one of the very lowlifes that roomed the streets of London. It didn't help that his golden hair was a mess, or there was dirt on his face, and his glasses _(which did give him a distinct look of class) _were gone. And then England took in the whole sight again and then faced the humiliating fact that he was also naked. Immediately he lifted the upper half of America's body towards him quickly, making his head roll back violently. He immediately put his head onto America's chest, trying to find any heartbeat. But England was breathing so violently it was impossible for him to focus.

_Calm down, I have to calm down_…he thought. But it seemed all his thoughts and worries were screaming in his ears. He heard a heart pounding heavily but knew it was just his own. He closed his eyes tight and brought America to him closer, making America's head loll back even further and causing his mouth to open agape and his adman's apple present itself prominently in his neck.

_Focus, focus_…he thought. After about a couple of seconds, England was aware of the horrible mocking silence that was around him. His breathing became louder and louder and then it seemed like he was going to break. An odd uttering sound came from his mouth, much to his own surprise, as he suddenly brought America's head right to his as close as he could. For almost a minute he held him like that, suddenly remembering the boy he had loved and raised. It was as if they had swirled back in time somehow to when America was a baby and England had held him close singing lullabies and promising to protect him. It was as if in this one minute he had made peace with everything that had happened between him and America and England's only job was the shield the boy from the cold and the cruelties of the rest of the world. But as fast as he thought of it, he shook it out of his head and tried again to concentrate. England then started to shake him, impatient with having to wait to hear a heartbeat. And then, as if that had done the trick, America's chest started rising up and down and he was breathing loudly.

England closed his eyes and held him closer to him again. He felt something stinging in his eyes, _no, that couldn't be…_

He had to think of something else, quick, he had to fill his mind with logic and survival now…

_He's so cold…_England thought. He then suddenly realized that that was probably the biggest issue he should be worrying about. Or really he forced himself to think that. He laid America back down on the snow as he undid his coat. He had forgotten all about the cold now and if anything was heating up to the point where it was hard to properly breath. He laid it over America and screamed his coachman's name. He shouldn't done that sooner.

Then England lifted America's shoulders up again with one arm and with the other he tried putting it under America's knees. But it wasn't like when he was a child. He had grown even taller than England and even his knees were too far for his arm to reach. England then tried situating it under his bottom and then made the mistake of trying to lift him up.

It was like trying to haul a boulder. When had he gotten so heavy? What had he been _eating? _

England yelled again for his coachman, who he finally saw running towards him a in huffing and puffing mess.

"Help me get him," England said, wrapping his arms around under his armpits.

His servant ran to America's legs, and they both managed to lift him up, but only inches from the ground. England felt terrible at perhaps hurting his body like this but he was very limp and still looked out.

England pulled his body into the carriage and decided to lay his body in the exact seat opposite from him. They tried to lie him down, but his body was so long.

"I'll get him situated, you just need to go," England said.

"To Russia's?"

"Yes, we're already half way there. We just need to leave."

When the carriage finally took off, in a pace much too slow for England, he was still trying to situate America in a more comfortable way on the seat.

_Jesus, _England thought, on his knees and holding to keep America up. _I forgot how big he was…_

He tired keeping America's body as close to his as possible, hoping that perhaps some of his body heat would warm him. The boy was still so stiff and cold. Finally he got him into a position where he didn't have to hold onto America in order for him to stay on the seat and not roll onto the floor. It was a very awkward angle but England could finally rest. He still laid on his knees, keeping close to America and trying to warm him as much as he could.

It was a horrible half an hour because the only sound being made where the trots of the horse which sounded too much like the beating of England's heart. At some points he felt like he had trouble breathing and needed to take a deep breath in order to calm himself. He tired finding a handkerchief somewhere or…something to clean America's face. After looking too long he decided to just screw it try something else. He just licked the tip of his fingers and rubbed them against the dirt and blood on America's face, trying to get rid of them the best he could. He even tried smoothing out his hair a bit, but that single strand still wanted to stay up. He tried not to think about what had happened, about what America had been doing there, because he knew if he did he would just become more and more impatient and desperate for answers. _Questions can be asked later _he thought. But that curiosity still lingered in him all the way until they finally got to Russia's.

Before they even stopped, England had ran out. The snow was just a nuisance, it was everywhere and even deeper, making it hard to run. When he got to the door his legs were wet and his cheeks red. He started banging on the door, calling out Russia's name. He waited for what seemed like a minute but no one came. He couldn't even hear anyone coming. So he called and banged on the door again.

_He's going to think I've gone mad when he sees me like this_, he thought, almost amused at himself. It didn't stop him from pounding harder and calling louder though. And then more time passed…

"RUSSIA!" he screamed.

_Where is that damn idiot? Why is he taking so long? Didn't he remember I'd be here? _

"RUSSIA!" he screamed again.

"You called?" a voice said behind him. England was so focused on the door that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he had heard that voice behind him. It didn't help that Russia towered over him at around six feet.

"Russia, I need your help," he started running back towards the carriage. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Russia still standing there giving him a queer look.

"Come on!" he said.

Finally Russia started moving forward, the snow not hindering him in any way. For almost every three steps England took, Russia only had to take about one. It started to make England wonder why he had ever gone to see Russia in the first place. Wait…_why had he gone to see Russia? _

He had completely forgotten why. That whole issue was relevant three hours ago but not now.

He ran into the carriage, with Russia only peering in.

"Please, help my carry him in," he said crouching next to America.

"What did you do?" Russia said wide eyed, starring at both of them.

"Please…I just found him like this…"

"Move over."

England did what exactly as he was told and he could feel the whole carriage almost tip to one side when Russia came in.

_This poor carriage has seen better days…_England thought.

"You carry him from the back, I'll-"

Before he could finish Russia had put both his arms under America and lifted him up as though he weighed nothing. England's mouth dropped open and he just starred. Russia didn't seem to notice though and started to carry America out the carriage which tipped again, causing England to almost fall over.

_When had he…had he always been that strong? _

It couldn't be right… he was the Great British Empire, the most powerful country in the world right now. If he couldn't carry America, how could Russia? For a split second a weird sensation filled England. Jealously? Envy? What was it? Oh well, now wasn't the time to figure it out…

He jumped out of the carriage and followed Russia into the house, which was a lot bigger than where he was staying in. It looked more impressive in the inside too, made to look very Victorian and upper class. Everything was spit spot clean and not grey or dreary like where he was staying in at the moment. England grew more and more confused by the minute. How did he get to stay in such luxury?

"Do you have family here?" England asked.

Russia didn't respond and kept carrying the limp American into a room as a boy (England assumed it was one of Russia's servants) watched on perplexed.

_He must have family here, _England though. _How could his living accommodations here be more impressive than mine? _

They went into a brightly lit room where a huge bed laid in the center and Russia laid him down onto it. He put his large hand onto America's head, and then drew it back immediately.

He then said something in his native tongue to his servant that stood near them, who then rushed out.

"Should we warm him?" England asked.

"He's warming right now," Russia said. "If you do something like that too fast, the body goes into shock."

"How do you know?"

Russia sneered and smiled. "I know a little bit about the cold…"

He and England locked eyes for a moment. There seemed to be a twinkling laughter in his eyes, something that was very unsettling to England. As though he was happy for a split second about the situation and seeing both America and England so vulnerable like this. But Russia seemed to be genuinely concerned about America…he didn't know really how their relationship was, so maybe it was better than theirs.

Russia's servant boy came back in with a small box in his hands. England didn't take particular notice until Russia had him put it next to America and opened it, revealing small containers of some type of liquid, dressings, and odd looking tools.

"He's bleeding all over," Russia said, taking the coat off to inspect America's body more.

"Leave that on him," England said sternly.

"It doesn't bother me…"

England flushed because he had always remember what he had told to America. That the body in a way was to always be covered up. There was no dignity when people saw you like that. He also knew America, in particular, was sensitive about nudity more so than Europeans. He tried his hardest to keep his eyes looking away from his lower region, but the other upper site wasn't good looking either.

He heard Russia swear angrily.

"You found him like this?"

"Yeah…"

"Where?"

"Umm…just a bit further away from this place…"

"Was anyone else around?"

"There were only some dead cavalry men…"

Russia paused and looked England square dead in the eye. He looked furious. But why? It didn't make any sense…

"I want to clean these gashes first," Russia picked up a needle and thread and started to rub some dirt and dry blood off of America's wound with a cloth.

"Wait," England started, starring at the needle. "We should get a doctor over here."

"There's no need…I know what I'm doing," and then he dove the needle into America's skin.

England just stood there watching him. He didn't know what was the proper thing to do. On one hand he wanted Russia to get his hands off of him. To stop digging that needle into his skin, to stop hurting him. He would cause more harm than damage, he just knew it. Just look at that monster…

On the other, he didn't know how to get him to stop. Russia seemed very concentrated and…

Well…_alright_, maybe he was a little frightened to tell him to stop also. It already seemed like he was an annoyance to Russia, though none of it made sense. He had a right to help. He had a right to make him stop…

England couldn't help but wince every time Russia drove the needle into America's skin. It left a uneasy feeling in his stomach. But why? The act of it wasn't really the thing that bothered him so much, he had seen worse than that plenty times before. So many wars and so many ways of seeing people dismembered, blown up, shot, stabbed, killed…it was hard for a nation not to get used to it. The first time is hard but after that it leaves less of an impact. So it was always easy for him to handle blood…

Then why was it so disturbing now? How had he become this fragile? Almost this whole day now he had felt like he hadn't been in control…

But then again the yank always did bring that out of him.

NOTES

**England didn't take particular notice until Russia had him put it next to America and opened it, revealing small containers of some type of liquid, dressings, odd looking tools. **

Apparently the First Aid Kit came out in the 1890's! It was Johnson's & Johnson's. Perfect timing….

**He also knew America, in particular, was sensitive about nudity more so than Europeans. **

I honestly don't know how much this was true in the 1880's, but I know it is today. And nudity _was _kind of a particular private thing in America since the 1900's. When the first nudist clubs and parks came in 1930, they received a lot of ridicule. Just go to Google and type in _Americans _and _nudity_ and there will be a lot of websites asking the question _Why are American's so scared of being naked? _Well, because it IS a private thing to us. When you're naked, in a way it feels as though you're exposed and vulnerable. It really doesn't scream FREEDOM! to us XD


	3. Chapter 3

It had taken what seemed like forever, in England's mind, to get America bandaged and clean. He could do nothing but watch as Russia did his work, and the whole time the atmosphere was most unpleasant. England knew Russia didn't like someone looking over his shoulder. It was more awkward for him though to do it. He felt like an unwelcome guest every since he arrived in this country, and now Russia was giving him that vibe_. Russia! _Out of anyone else in the world. At one point, Russia looked behind his shoulder.

"You should go back and see if anyone else is still alive."

England instantly heard the obvious annoyance in his voice. _I guess it is a bit awkward to just watch him…_

"They were all dead…"

"Are you sure?"

England didn't know, but he knew this was Russia's attempt to make him leave the room. He didn't want to leave America alone with Russia however. He would rather stay and look after him, but what did it matter to Russia, why did he care? Since when did he need a valid reason to be there?

"You didn't check any of their pulses?"

England shook his head, knowing he was flat out admitting his stupidity to him.

He watched as Russia turned back towards America and continued to tend to him.

When had he become so close to America? He didn't know what their relationship was like but it couldn't be possible they were actual friends…yet in a way, England felt like he was intruding upon something private and a strong vibe of protectiveness came from Russia as he watched the two. It was so odd….everything now was…

Russia washed the last dirt and dried blood off America's skin as he and England stood up to look at the finished product. England never knew how good Russia was at stitching and patching wounds up. Russia seemed pleased to say the least, but England couldn't help but be agitated by that scruffy beard he still wore on. He would look much better without it; maybe he could shave that tomorrow…

"He should come about in the next couple of days," Russia said. "I'll watch over him until then."

England glared at Russia, knowing all too well what he was trying to do. What he was trying to say.

"I'm going to stay here too," he retorted. "At least until he wakes up."

Russia looked at him out of the corner of his eyes and seemed like he wanted to say something but didn't.

Still, England felt like he had to explain himself or give him some kind of answer.

"We don't know if those people are still around here or who did it…."

"I already know who did it."

A long pause ensued, mainly because England was hesitating to ask why. _How is it that Russia knew? Was it really that plain to see_? He kept quiet but Russia stood up and then drew a long finger over the large bruise over America's chest.

"See this? He got hit with something pretty hard. Do you know what a ball club is?"

England shook his head.

"It's a basically a round rock at the end of a stick with some buckskin over it. The Natives of his land have been making them for centuries."

As soon as Russia said that, a light bulb went on in England's head. _Yes, he had heard and seen those things before…why had I forgotten? _

"I remember those…"

Russia sat down on a chair, looking almost exhausted from fixing America. He yawned.

"I'm just guessing his cavalry were too close to a place they shouldn't have been…"

He looked at England then as if he was seeing if he knew what he was talking about. England, however, still gave him a blank stare. He signed, grabbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers as if he had just developed a headache in the last two seconds.

"I know you and America aren't in the best relationship as of right now…"

England felt more of confusion than anger when he heard that. But furious questions were still running through his head. _What? Why would he bring something like that up now? _

"I'm only thinking that maybe none of this is your business and maybe you should go home and forget all this. I can look after him from here."

"What? What do you bloody well mean it's none of my business? I was the one who walked upon the scene. It's my right to know what the hell happened at least."

"Suppose I told you something America didn't want you to know…"

_What is he talking about? _England wondered. _Is America even that complex? _

"What don't I know? I know of his cross with the Indians…"

Russia looked up at him, eyes suddenly fierce and demanding.

"Oh, da?" He seemed to scan England, as though trying to test him which only perplexed England more.

England cleared his throat, "Some years ago, there was an Indian named Sitting Bull who ran away from America and begged the Canadian government to give his people a reservation where they could support themselves. We denied him land though because he wasn't a British citizen."

Russia crossed his arms and looked down to the floor.

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"No," England admitted.

"He died a few months ago, killed by an American cavalry."

England tried to scan his head for memories, anything relating to this. But he couldn't remember anything; America surely didn't tell him of it.

"What does that have to do with anything?" he snapped.

What was with the Russia avoiding his questions? He never asked _him_ to explain himself. Why was he making such a big deal out of this?

Russia, however, seemed to be in his head, with his hand to his chin and his eyes looking into space. He was definitely thinking over this whole situation without filling England in. Then he looked up with a serious look in his eyes.

"Did any of the other men have their clothes removed?"

"No," England said. _Why does he want to know that? _

"That's a small problem," Russia then stood up and started to walk out of the room. England followed him out into the hallway, Russia closing the door behind him. The hallway seemed a lot darker from the last time England was in. He looked out the window and saw that night had already fallen. Had they been tending to him for really that long?

"Why is that a problem?" England asked.

"It's kind of like our battles back in the day…you remember?"

England didn't, and now he was getting tired of Russia running around his questions and not giving him a solid answer. This whole thing would move along so much faster if Russia just told him who did it and why. Maybe Russia liked playing with him this way…

"They often remove all the clothes from their bodies to humiliate them…"

England then understood. He had remembered arriving in the new world and seeing the red half naked natives running around with almost nothing but a piece of cloth covering their genitals. In a way it had been very disturbing but also alluring to him. The native women had some excellent breasts, more so than any woman he had seen back home.

And then a very unusual memory came back to him. He remembered a time in which he had left a small America to tend to his duties in his own country, only to come back to the new world to find him by the river creek with nothing on.

"_Where are your clothes?" England asked when America came up to hug him. _

"_I'm going to wash myself." _

"_Why?" _

"_To be clean."_

"_You don't need to wash yourself every day, lad…" _

"_Everyone here does." _

_England snorted. Scanning through his mind, he did remember now of the natives here washing themselves an unusual amount…almost every day. He probably shouldn't have left him here this long alone. _

"_Get your clothes, I'm going to take you home," he grabbed America's hand and started to walk. _

"_I don't have any." _

_England stopped and knelt down next to him. He looked around for something for the child to wear, but there was almost nothing but the clothes on his back and it had been so hot out today, he was only wearing his dress shirt. _

_Well, no matter. He took it off and wrapped it around America. _

"_Let's go now," he said. _

"_Why?" _

"_Well, firstly, because you're not wearing anything, and secondly I'm not wearing anything," he picked America up and started towards home. _

That was when he had told America for the first time how it was unorthodox to have your clothes off when you're in public or out in the open. How it was a private thing and everyone else would feel awkward if they did see him naked. He only had to tell him a few more times later those months for America to really listen to him though and started acting like a real British citizen.

He had been so proud of him back then. It was odd to think that same little boy was now a fully grown man in the next room, which lots of _facial hair _no less.

"I'm very confused though," Russia said, dragging England out of thoughts, "as to why just America didn't have his clothes on. Did you see any signs they left quickly?"

England tried to think. It was actually somewhat hard to remember much else.

"I don't think so…look, just tell me what you think happened!"

Russia signed as he started to walk slowly down the hallway, England at his heels.

"I just think it was an Indian attack is all…"

He looked the other way as if what he just said was nothing interesting in the slightest.

"We can't know for sure until America wakes up. Until then, I'm guessing you're going to stay here then, da?"

England gave him a questioning look, almost forcing Russia to explain.

"Well, I don't think I can make you leave."

"You want me to stay here suddenly now?" England sneered.

"It seems you're very worried about him."

"I don't," England said quickly with his head up. "I just want to know what happened is all. The whole thing sent me back a day."

"Well, we still got together," Russia titled his head and smiled.

_Why is this guy so hard to read? _England wondered. _First he's helpful, then demanding, then mysterious, now welcoming…there is no logical reasoning about him… _

And then he finally remembered why he had come to America in the first place. To try to be _friends_ with this man…

Russia was still smiling at him as he took a flask of vodka out of his coat pocket.

"Stay here until he wakes up. I have another room you can use. It's all fine by me…"

Russia turned and started to walk away, taking a large gulp of the flask as he went.

_I suppose I've been doing nothing but interrogating him in my mind the whole night too…_England thought. Maybe they could sit down and talk without any thought of this tomorrow. Until then…

"Russia," England said loudly. "There's this new book I've been wanting to lend you. It's called The Picture of Dorian Grey. I've wanted to know your opinion about it."

Russia looked over his shoulder and said back, "I did start it in St. Petersburg when I saw it in a shop, but I stopped. It's not well written."

In the next few days it occurred to England that he had been thinking about America's situation for an unusually long amount of time. Every night before he went to sleep he seemed to think about the matter for almost an hour until his eyelids finally began to drop. Questions rolled around in his mind and it was driving him insane to have to wait this long to get them answered. Not only that, but he was beginning to become more and more angry and annoyed with anyone and everything.

It was still so awkward talking to Russia, they never really had much to talk about except America. How he ever thought he could come here to try to have a long, nice, friendly chat with him in the beginning was beyond him now. It was hard enough to even start some sort of sentence, let alone know any topics. Every morning they always started with the weather and then politics and then more pointless things. So for the most part, England kept to himself the next two days.

On the second day he was relieved that he remembered he had something to do; what was the first thing he wanted to do ever since he even saw America? Get rid of that dreadful beard. Now he had a point in being here. Now he was useful.

He carried a cloth, some cream and a razor in a small case, one he usually used for himself to America's room. It was the afternoon and Russia had told him he was leaving to see America's boss.

England wondered if he was going to tell the boss anything about this. Yet everyone except for himself seemed to know more than what he knew as to what was going on. Why was that? And then he wondered again why Russia was here in the first place.

He sat down onto the bed next to America and brought the hoe shaped razor out of its case. America had been unconscious ever since England had found him and now it was becoming almost frustrating. It was as if America was a child and he had to take care of him all over again. He had to check on him frequently, he had to clean him, he had to make him drink as much as he could….

Once when he was giving America water he had to tilt his head back and pour the liquid in. He looked forward and wasn't focusing and then he spilt too much in his mouth. America instantly started chocking and coughing very violently. England lifted his head up. The force of the coughs were so brutal, America's eyes started to flutter open. For a moment the two linked eyes, green meeting blue, and then America fell back limb again.

England kept starring at America for a few more seconds, his emotions all too much to bear. And then he felt bad for having hurt him like that, he didn't mean it, he didn't want to hurt him, he just didn't want to stare at him in the face…

And then it just all came back to that one big question though. How did _he _get roped into his?

He tired not to think as he rubbed the cream from his fingers on America's face. It felt even weirder to feel it. It's not as if he had never touched another man's beard before in the almost two thousand years he had been alive, he touched his own, so for the most part he knew what they felt like; but this was so much stranger. Perhaps because it was America, who he raised as a child. He could still remember the baby fat he had around the face and those innocent big blue eyes only a child could have.

He tried to rub the cream over all America's facial hair without trying to think about that.

He then brought the razor to America's throat and started to shave upwards. It was so silent England could hear the contact the razor had with the beard. It almost seemed reluctant to come off.

He rinsed the razor in a cup of water and then continued. Every so often an uneasy sign came out of his mouth. Why…how did he get involved in all of this? It was odd how much he wanted to be apart of it two days ago, but now he could feel himself almost putting all the blame on America for all of this…

For having to have to be stuck here with Russia, for having to have to baby-sit him, for having to have to still be treated like he wasn't worthy enough to know anything. Maybe it had been useless to come here in the first place. America needed to learn how to take care of himself, that's what it all came down to.

_Why the hell were you fucking out there anyway? _He wanted so much to ask him. It made no sense, it was such a burden and it brought back too many memories and feelings England held deep in his heart. If that goddamn kid wanted to be treated like an adult, he had to start acting like one. And as an country, no one else was going to pick up the pieces for you, all you had was yourself and your people and even that, at times it wasn't enough. Damn it, America had to know it, he just had his civil war. He couldn't be this dense, he had almost died from it…

If only America had just decided to stay with him during the revolution, if only America had just decided not to revolt, if only America was smarter and more intelligent and knew how to take care of himself, if only America wasn't such a _spoiled brat_, if only_- _

And then America was bleeding. England quickly drew the razor back and saw the deep cut he had made on America's skin. He only started to realize what he had just done when the blood made contact with the white cream and made the color even more red. He quickly took the cloth and put it against the cut, startled by what had just happened, what he had just did. After a few seconds, he brought the cloth back and saw he was still bleeding fiercely.

_It won't stop, why won't it stop? _

He kept the cloth pressed longer against the cut and then looked over for anything to put over it. When he couldn't find anything, he just stared at America, a wave of guilt washing over him.

He kept one hand pressed tightly on the cloth and tried to just finish his work.

This time he didn't think, didn't try to focus on anything except shaving America.

He kept that cloth pressed hard against his skin during the whole process, trying as hard as he could stop the bleeding. Oh, damn, why had he done that? Why had he hurt him?

_Had he really cut him that hard? _

NOTES

**Some years ago, there was an Indian named Sitting Bull who ran away from America and begged the Canadian government to give his people a reservation where they could support themselves. We denied him land though because he wasn't a British citizen.**

If you're not an American, Sitting Bull was a pretty famous Native American who fought for Indian rights. I remember in middle school learning about the Native American tribes a lot and his name often came up. This incident apparently really did happen according to the famous Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee book by Dee Brown.

**Russia crossed his arms and looked down to the floor. **

"**Do you know what happened to him?" **

"**No," England admitted. **

"**He died a few months ago, killed by an American cavalry." **

I may be getting all the dates wrong in this story, so please forgive me. But concerning his death, the Indian police came around his house to get him. At first he complied, but all his followers were around his house yelling at the police to let their leader go. And pretty soon, Sitting Bull decided right then and there he didn't want to go. Well, bad timing. One of his followers fired a shot, and then the police did, and in the whole hysteria, Sitting Bull got shot and killed. It really wasn't as much as an epic showdown as it was just all a stupid accident.

**They often remove all the clothes from their bodies to humiliate them…**

This is true. I remember in class watching a movie that talked about the Indians removing their clothes after they had killed them in battle and one kid asked our teacher why they did that.

"To humiliate them!" he said.

"That's humiliating them?" he answered. I guess some Americans ARE okay with being naked…

**In a way it had been very disturbing but also alluring to him. The native women had some excellent breasts, more so than any woman he had seen back home. **

I was reading this book called The Birth of America by William Polk and it was funny how many of the English that first came here made mental note that the breasts the natives had were very beautiful. This one guy named Champlain said: _…features all in proportion, and their breasts hang down hardly at all, unless they are old._

And they go _on and on…._

_**England snorted. Scanning through his mind, he did remember now of the natives here washing themselves an unusual amount…almost every day. He probably shouldn't have left him here this long alone. **_

When the English came here they also noticed how often the Native Americans cleaned themselves. They bathed practically every morning. The average English person, on the other hand, only took a bath _once a year_. Apparently they considered it unhealthy to bath too much…


	4. Chapter 4

When Russia left, England had no suspicions as to what he was really doing. For the most part, he believed what Russia had told him about going to see America's boss and perhaps letting him know of the circumstances.

Yet when Russia came back he seemed to have something weighing down his mind. When England asked about it Russia told him politely it wasn't anything, said he had left some pants and a coat on the bed for America, and went immediately to his room. England didn't see him for the rest of the night, and it was good because that meant he probably wasn't going to see the fresh cut on America's face. Over those past days England had gotten used to being treated poorer than usual. It was almost second nature now for Russia to treat him as though he were just a pest in his house. That didn't mean he was vicious towards him. On the contrary, whenever they did come into contact Russia seemed like a perfect gentleman to England. He was kind and gracious but England could still feel that strong vibe and a little out of place.

Well, maybe it was just him…

The next morning England awoke to sun coming through his window. He barley ever saw any sun at his place, but here it was frequent. Sometimes it annoyed England. Sometimes it was a nice change. Today it burden to him. He had spent around three days here now so what else was he here for.

Perhaps it wouldn't matter if he wasn't around when America woke up. Maybe it would be better.

He only stayed as long as he did though because he wanted to know exactly what happened. Who could be certain that America would tell him when he awoke?

England started to get dressed and decided, this time, to have some morning tea with Russia. They had to be around each other as much as possible for this _friendship_ thing to work out it seemed. Finally it stopped becoming awkward for England to try to make small talk. There really was _nothing_ else to do.

He straightened out his collar as he walked down the hallway and then saw the door to America's room slightly open.

Wondering if Russia was in there, he opened the door all the way and for only a split second saw the unusual sight.

America, with only Russia's pants on, was standing towards the window stroking gigantic bird which was perched on the sill. England immediately gasped and froze in his spot. It was a huge animal, possibly one of the biggest birds he's ever seen. It was almost the size of a small child. And America was just there petting it as though it were a cat or something…

"Bloody hell," England said, registering what he was seeing.

The eagle and America both turned their heads in his direction. The eagle then abruptly started to expand its wings out as if it too were surprised. England had to admit, the bird was an impressive creature. It had a dashing white head with a sharp yellow beak with eyes that seemed to stare starred directly into England. The rest of its body was a dark brown with long huge features and alarming looking talons. England starred at the two, as they both seemed like one creature just looking back at him. It was so bizarre England could only utter one thing.

"That's a big bird…"

Suddenly the eagle made a loud screech (which only startled England) turned, and flew out towards the pale blue sky. America turned back to watch the bird soon became a dot as it flew further and further away until it finally disappeared. He was still looking out the window long after it was out of sight; his posture turned away from England as if wasn't even there. He didn't say anything as his head slowly fell from watching the sky to the ground.

England walked into the room further only to feel more out of place. The atmosphere was all too difficult to manage. America seemed to be giving off waves of uncomfortable feelings as he came closer to him.

England finally decided to stop in one spot. His hands where to his waist as he searched for something, anything to say to him…

However, it seemed forming words had become a challenge and the next thing that came out was just a jumbled mess.

"You're…alright, then? Do you…need…ummm…nice day-"

Suddenly America walked over to the bed and picked up the huge brown overcoat Russia had laid there and put it over him. America's eyes were now focused entirely him as he started to button it. It was a long hard stare that startled England and somewhat disturbed him; it was as though the boy was blaming him for his wounds and all the agony he held within his heart. England stared back at him, opening and closing his mouth. He didn't realize how many cuts and bandages he had on his face.

And then America walked out of the room. England turned and followed. He didn't know whether he should call out or just remain silent. He felt like an eruption of anger was about to explode. England was shocked at how quickly he had to move to keep up with America's long strides.

"America."

England almost bumped right into America as he suddenly halted and looked towards the room where Russia was lounging at. The big man started to walk over to the two, smiling as he put a large hand on America's shoulder. England saw America suddenly flinch at the contact but he didn't pull away.

"It's nice to see you up. Come in the room, we'll have food," Russia went out towards the kitchen as he left the two standing there. Abruptly America walked into the room and sat down on chair that looked similar to the ones England had back at home. He didn't look at England, only looked towards the floor, as if his mind where somewhere else. England looked over to where Russia might've gone to; all of this was just too awkward for him to handle on his own and the Russian seemed to know where he was doing. He didn't know whether he should stay there or decide to leave. Maybe if he left, Russia would give him any information he wanted to know later. But his feet still remained planted on the carpet.

Russia came back and clasped a hand on England's shoulder.

"I've got some of my people making breakfast now, won't you join us?"

Before he could say anything, England was almost pushed towards the room. Russia sat down next to America and looked back up at him.

"You going to sit down?" he asked.

"Ummm," England said in a low voice. "I think I'm going to just stand it's that alright with you."

The two both stared at him as though he were the oddest thing they ever saw. Russia nevertheless nodded.

"America, have you read this book?" Russia said, grabbing England's book off a small table.

America starred at it and then seemed to register what he was looking at.

"Yeah, I have," he said in low raspy voice.

"America was the one who showed it to me," England said unexpectedly, surprising himself.

America gave him a confused look. England again seemed to have trouble with his words as he began to talk.

"The last time we met you showed me that book."

America looked at him again with that same deadly glare, looking over every bit of him.

"What are you doing here?" he said sternly.

England lost his voice. There it was, the signal for him to leave. Yet Russia intervened.

"We wanted to get together and discuss few things. War, politics, who knows…at the moment our bosses are also meeting. They seem to do that a lot, da? Talk behind us…"

America smiled for the first time, but it was obviously directed at Russia. He slowly laid back, looking at the floor nodding.

"You know it."

England then started to fume. Why as dandy with Russia all of a sudden? And why did he need to explain why he was here and not Russia? This was the perfect time to ask him.

"I actually didn't catch why you were here to begin with Russia."

"I invited him," America seemed to growl, staring at him. England felt a bump forming in his throat but he didn't look away from that glare. He started to return it with more fierceness.

"America is selling me his furs at the moment," Russia said, "I'm a heavy buyer. I love wolf skins. They have such beautiful fur."

America seemed to snort and looked the other direction.

"Well, they are almost everywhere here. Much so than in Europe. Do you like to go wolf hunting, America?"

America kept his eyes still peeled in the other direction.

"Love it."

"We should all go sometime."

America nodded but still continued to stare at the floor.

That was it. England had had enough. He obviously wasn't going to say anything to him. America was being back to being a brat and nothing would change that. England just had to be the bigger man.

"I'm leaving now," he said.

The two both looked up. He was ready to hear Russia go on about how he should stay, have breakfast, try to make as much small talk as he could with America. But his expression barley changed.

"You sure?" he asked.

"I think I should," he took a deep breath in and tried to say as cherry as possible, "Well, have a nice time, alright?"

He then turned and walked down the hallway, not bothering to look back.

He heard Russia say goodbye to him in his native tongue but didn't bother to respond. He grabbed his scarf and gloves and stepped outside in the cold weather, a real nuisance on top of everything else.

For a moment he stood outside, wondering if he should go back in. But the tension was just too much. It was one thing in his mind to start scowling and lecturing America over this, but it was another thing to do it. And something in his mind told him that this wasn't the time.

Maybe later he would get in touch with America again and they could discuss whatever the boy wanted.

And then he thought, yes, he _would _get in touch with him because curiosity still lingered in his heart.

Russia and America both heard the sound of the door closing and suddenly a new feeling of freedom seemed to fill the air. Mostly coming from America.

However, when Russia turned all of his attention to the youth, he could still feel the awkwardness and embarrassment coming from him. So it surprised Russia when America was the first to speak.

"Was everyone there dead?"

Russia signed. "Funny you should say that…yesterday, I went back to the spot where you were. There was already a small unit of your men there taking away the bodies."

Russia looked at America and wondered if his reaction would give away any sort of answers. Yet America seemed frozen there was no expression on his face that really gave him away.

"There was one man though alive."

America focused his attention back on Russia.

"Are you serious?"

Russia nodded. "He was still out of it though. If you catch up with your command, I'm sure you can find out where they took him to recover. I think they told me he was going to live."

"Did they say anything else?" America looked Russia square in the eyes.

"Your men are pretty secretive. I suppose they could hear my accent and thought I was just from a local town taking a walk. I didn't tell them about you."

America seemed pleased enough with this answer and went back into looking at the floor.

"Why you have to be like that and not talk to him?" Russia said as he put his hand to his head.

He saw something in America's throat move a bit as he remained silent.

"Why do you have to ask?" America murmured.

"I just think you should return the favor," Russia scratched his nose. "I didn't tell him anything new for the sake of reserving your privacy. And I don't expect you to tell me anything more than him. It's none of my business."

America turned his head.

"You guys didn't discuss any of this?"

"Well, we did, I have told him my hypothesis but…in the end it is all kept with you. I'm just here to buy some wolf skins."

"What was your hypothesis?"

Russia snorted. "I know nothing of American politics. Well, nothing more than him. I just assumed you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing more."

America watched as Russia looked into space. A surge of affection suddenly came over him.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what exactly?"

America scanned his head, embarrassed to tell him the real reason.

"For fixing me."

"I didn't do much. England was the one who found you."

A long pause comes from America's end.

"I know," he whispered.

"He was on his way to see me. He found you and brought you to me and stayed here the whole time."

"Don't make me feel like this," America muttered head down and eyes to the floor. For a moment Russia didn't say anything. Then he smiled.

"He also shaved you, if you didn't notice."

America looked up at him. He pointed to the cut on his cheek. "He did this?"

"Da, he did. I didn't know how it happened; maybe he was angry at you…"

"About what?" he sneered.

"Well, same he was now. All he would want is an answer, a reason as to what happened. He feels that he deserves it, and I think he does too."

"It's better that him and you don't know…I've got it figured out."

"Of course you do."

"It's not your problem," America felt a blaze of anger run down his spine, but took a breath in, trying to tell himself to calm down. A few minutes past as neither one knew what else to say.

NOTES

"**America is selling me his furs at the moment," Russia said, "I'm a heavy buyer. I love wolf skins."**

During this time, America traded wolf fur with Russia and Europe. I'm kind of stretching this one though. It actually wasn't too popular with the people and never quite caught on.

"**Do you like to go wolf hunting, America?" **

**America kept his eyes still peeled in the other direction. **

"**Love it." **

Apparently hunting wolves was a real popular sport in North America and Europe in the 1800's. It got to the point where almost all of them were wiped out in America.

**America and Russia's relationship **

As weird as it sounds, Russia and America were actually kind of cool with each other around this time. I think I read somewhere Russia did help out America a little during the revolution and years later in the 1890's when Russia had its bad famine, America would lend it money.

Thank you so much to all of my reviewers! I love reading them so much, keep them coming! It makes me so excited and lifted to read your reactions and feelings about the story, that's really my favorite part!

And I'm so sorry for having to keep you waiting with not telling you want exactly happened to America. I just watched that Big Bang Theory episode where Howard gets the letter from his dad and never reads it but everyone else has. And then they tell him, like, seven different versions of what's in the letter. And then the episode ends and you NEVER find out what version is true. (For the record, I think Raj's was) but I just realized how frustrating that can be! But I'm only doing it for a reason, there is a point to all of it, just bear with me! The answer WILL come very soon now!


	5. Chapter 5

The next two weeks passed without anything eventful happening to England. He still didn't receive any word yet from America about anything and was still badgered by his boss to make some sort of alliance with Russia. He insisted that England must do it for the good of his people due to the recent war scare he had with Russia. He had to patch up some ties and confirm to the British public that there would be no danger from the biggest nation on earth. It was easier said than done though. England often found himself having to have to tip toe over the conversations they always had and that never made him feel any good. It hurt his pride even more to find out that Russia and America were apparently _friends_. God, that was a disgusting thing to call it…

He did feel some comfort in it though. If America got into some kind of trouble he could always go to him. When England found himself feeling too glad about this, he reasoned with himself it was only good for him because America then wouldn't pester him. He would be left out of it and could focus on himself.

But America wasn't pestering him. Since the revolution, he only annoyed England like any other enemy would, not as if he were a child. Bu_t he is being a child _England thought. _It's not hard to ask anyone for help when they needed it. He clearly needs it and is just being stubborn. _

It was constantly hard to have to stay in America and try to keep his mind off of him or even the situation itself. He had gotten word from a few locals that one of the men there, besides America, was actually alive, located in his house being tended to by his wife and daughters. If he could somehow get to him without anyone in the cavalry knowing, maybe he could give England the answers he needed.

However, when England finally found the man through a series of local networking and traveling, the man seemed to be confused. When England asked him what happened, the man shook his head.

"A dog attack us…I think it was a wolf…"

America didn't say anything about that…well, he didn't say anything at all.

"Did the Indians try to hurt you?"

The man looked like he was concentrating, trying to remember what had happened so recently ago. These seemed like innocent questions from a local, nothing else.

"No."

"There was none there?"

"I don't think so."

_Well, bloody screw it all to hell. _

England thanked the man and left. He was no closer to where he had been before. What a waste of time then. Maybe he should just go home-

"_Angleterre!" _

The hair on the back of England's neck seemed to stand up when he heard that voice. He turned around and saw France waving and walking towards him. _What, how and why? _

"_Angleterre, _I didn't know you were here!" The older nation suddenly threw his arms around England. "_Angleterre_, I've been so lonely and sad here all alone!"

"Get off me!" England yelled. He shoved France away, instantly smelling the alcohol and low self-worth.

It didn't matter how much they had accomplished after the Napoleon wars; England still couldn't stand the bastard. On and off again the relationship between the two countries would be good one moment and then bad the next. England hated this. He just wanted to know if he should hate the git or not and be done with it. For the most part, France served as an annoyance.

"I'm not in the right kind of mind right now to deal with you," England started.

"I've got to talk to you about Africa…." France stuttered.

England rolled his eyes. For the past decades, this topic was the center of their boss's attention. Only a few years ago they had come to an agreement as to what country got what.

"Dahomey's pals have been such bullies to me in Africa!" France was now too close to him for comfort.

"Maybe it's because you're trying to take what's his," England maneuvered around him and began walking away from him in long strides.

"_Quoi!? _You should talk! Imperialism defines you Britain!"

At first England thought about replying, but realized it just wasn't worth it at the moment. The idiot was drunk. Even if he did put the Frenchy in his place he probably wouldn't remember it the next morning so what was the point? He tried to keep walking.

"_Je suis desole_!"

"What?" England stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"It means I'm sorry." France seemed to wobble over to England. "Please, I don't want to be alone in such a strange foreign country…"

"What are you going on about?" England said perplexed. "This is nothing like you! Now just go home and let me be!"

"I want to be alone too," France said. "Please come…get drunk with me…."

Was the whole world going insane?

"Why don't you find a woman to stalk, you pervert?"

Instead of replying, France seemed to consider what England had just proposed to him. Yet, he signed, putting his hand to his head.

"_Non…_these Yankee women don't take their clothes off so willingly…not as much as I am used to in Europe, anyways…."

England hated to suddenly feel sorry for him. Because he too was missing Europe. He just wanted to go back home and be done with this mess. Maybe he would because this land, its people…it was just no place for him. England could completely understand what France was talking about.

"Come on…maybe the American women are more willing to take their panties off when they hear a British accent…"

"Shut up!" England turned away from him. But France still continued to follow him and make more drunken ramblings about life, the country, and about his recent war in West Africa. England didn't know much about it, but from what he gathered, France ultimately won. So why was he so sad and lonely?

It really wasn't too hard to figure out though. It was just home sickness. Being away from their own country for far too long often caused that effect. It wasn't you, it wasn't your place, and these weren't people like you. England still felt like he couldn't relax in this setting.

Suddenly after a long time of hearing that annoying frog's accent it suddenly stopped. England looked behind him to see that France had fallen onto the dirt and was having a particular hard time getting up. England signed and grabbed his arm.

"_Quoi, _you're going to come with me now?" France asked, his eyes lighting up.

"I don't want to, but you're giving me no choice. I can't just leave you out here in the middle of the night drunk with Yankee lowlifes, that's beneath me."

France was so happy to have England with him grabbed his hand and ran to his favorite pub. Four times he seemed to forget where he was going, but England had gotten used to the idea of having to have to baby-sit him. At least for tonight. Though he didn't think more alcohol was the solution. Yet France suddenly seemed to become leader instantly and took England to his favorite seat and bought him drinks. For over an hour, France talked nonstop. Half of the time, England didn't know really what he was saying. He kept switching between English and French and his accent had gotten so thick it was hard to understand him. He was also talking fast and seemed to be in his own world. But this suited England. He didn't want to talk much tonight for the most part. But after more and more alcohol came into his system, he suddenly had more things to say. For some reason that was the effect it did to him.

Somehow, England didn't even know how, they got on topic about the Oscar Wilde book. Apparently France had read it and England quickly asked what he thought of it. France just seemed to sign, closing his eyes and moving some hair out of his eyes.

"Oh, Dorian Grey is gorgeous, _oui? _Don't you see a resemblance in him and me?"

Britain chocked on his drink, not only because of what France had said but also because the stuff was so damn _strong_. He hadn't been prepared for that. He wasn't really a whiskey drinker. Then he sneered but France still smirked. Then that _really _pissed him off.

"He sold his soul to be youthful forever. You're not too-"

"I'm not old!" France spat.

Britain knew this would hit his sensitive spot. He began to snicker, waiting for France to defend himself or maybe throw an insult out at him but none came. He eyed France who seemed upset, and then to Britain's surprise, France turned his whole body away from him. At first he thought it was some kind of joke. But France never turned back and began to talk with other chums in the pub. _Was that really too much? _Britain asked angrily in his head. Why did he care about his age? It didn't matter to him, why should it to France? Age didn't make a difference being them. But France never looked back.

_Never mind him then_, England thought. He took another sip of his drink despite the hard taste and looked around himself. The bar was full of what looked like people of his decent, but they were far from _his _people. All big, tall men with leather boots and those odd looking hats England had seen before, but forgot the name of. They were all making their presence very much known with the laughter and yelling and shouting. How obnoxious…

He felt like an old man among teenagers. Clearly his culture was more mature and civilized than these brutes. England snorted. _Why did America always act so high and mighty? _

But England tried to stop himself now from thinking about America. There was no point in it after all.

At the end of the night England and France finally regrouped back together and left the pub. France was acting normal again but was also almost too drunk to walk in a straight line. Still, he didn't seem upset with Britain like before. He was giggling, singing, and speaking his native tongue. That was usually when you knew the man had had too much. _Why it is, _England thought, _that when he drinks he becomes happy… and when I drink I become depressed? Why it is I think more? Why can't there just be nothing in my head like that git? _

Then England started to wonder again why France had been so upset before. The alcohol had just taken it all away, lucky bastard…

"I'm not mad about it," France said when England asked him about it.

"Then why did you bloody care so much about some ramblings?"

"I don't…but…there's something to be said about a youth that I felt the book captured perfectly."

England snorted. Of course France liked it.

"Yes, yes," he said. "It would be nice to be young forever."

"It's not just that," France said. "For some reason in our society youth is a very valuable thing. You can be old the rest of your life, but young only once. It's almost a shame we've gotten passed that point, no matter how young we look."

"What do you mean we!?"

France laughed. "Oh, I'm so sorry _monsieur_, but you _are_ almost a thousand years old…"

England had to think for a moment. It was hard to even remember when he started to exist. But yes, the damn idiot was right. A few more centuries and we will have lived a thousand years.

"So what?" England barked. "Every country is around that age, what does it matter?"

"Not every country," France said. "The whole new world is just beginning. If anything, America and Canada are still infants compared to us. Sometimes I look at them and wish I was that young again…"

"What does it matter? You still look the same."

"You don't listen, _stupide! _Youth isn't just in the appearance; it's…something like a burning star that never shines out in your heart. I guess the worst of it is, is no matter how old they become…even our age now, they will still be forever young to us. It's almost not fair."

England thought for a second.

"You're quite poetic when you're like this."

"_Oui_, the best work that is ever done is when one is under the influence…"

* * *

America liked to hunt. Even when he was younger, for some odd reason, he was drawn to a gun. Sometimes it disturbed him because…why was it so exciting to do it? Well, maybe it's a human thing. After all, cavemen needed to hunt in order to survive in the beginning. Maybe that instinct is still buried in some human beings. And it did feel like an animal feeling.

Starring at the big timber wolf twenty feet away as he pointed his gun to its heart felt like an adrenalin rush to his system. There was only him and it in the whole world. There had to be in order for him to concentrate. The only thing America could hear now was the heavy beating of his heart. His hands tightened around the gun and he breathed in once.

And then he pulled the trigger.

It didn't yelp; it didn't limp; it just seemed startled and then started running. But America knew he shot it. Various times he had been out hunting and when shooting at bucks, they did the same thing; ran for a long distance and then drop to the ground dead.

Johnson let out a yowl.

"You got him, sir!"

America lowered his gun, watching the wolf run farther into the woods, the trees soon covering its sight. America wanted to make sure though; without a word to Johnson he started walking further into the woods. He saw only small drips of blood by the wolf tracks but it was often common.

Finally they came towards a body. The wolf had died quickly. Then again, a lot of animals America had for the most part hunted usually did.

"Whoa, he's big!" Johnson smiled. "You got the bastard!"

America walked around the wolf, almost studying it. It was very big wolf. The head and paws were bigger than the average dog and it had inch long teeth. Then he kicked it once and it remained still. It sure was dead. America laid his gun against his shoulder and then started to walk away.

"You don't want to stuff it?" Johnson asked.

"Maybe another time," America said. All in all, he really didn't want to touch the fucking thing. The only thing that satisfied him was that it was dead. One out of a thousand more down.

It was getting dark, and it would be better off if they went back to base anyway.

Johnson followed him, still eager by the kill to remain silent.

"You know, I was wondering why you shaved yourself."

America didn't answer. He just kept walking. Johnson didn't notice.

"You look a hell of a lot younger now even since you've got your face clean."

"Yeah, well…it takes five years off of anyone."

It was a pain to walk around in such weather. America had underestimated it as he walked around in his very thin uniform. It would've been unfitting though to complain about it in front of someone of lower ranking than him. Johnson was a young man around his twenties, new to the cavalry and very keen on doing everything right. America could feel the anxiousness off the kid. What was even funnier is that he didn't even know America was…well, America. Only the top generals knew about it and were good about keeping it private. So why was the kid so antsy? Maybe that was just his personality. It didn't stop America from being annoyed by the kid though. He had been with him all day, bombarded him with questions about his scars and cuts and kept asking him where he had been in the past week as no one really knew. It was hard not to get frustrated with him.

Johnson also was trying at the moment to make constant small talk with America. But instead of even replying, he kept his head down and only muttered replies. He was up to talking with anyone lately; and he managed to keep everything to himself for the past couple of months.

As they walked, America (without realizing) had soon gotten further and further away from Johnson. The kid was far behind him, the snow hindering his movement. After a few minutes America suddenly stopped. Something in the pit of his stomach was telling him he was being watched.

Instinctually he looked up into the tall dark trees and saw a large bald eagle perched on one of the branches looking down on him. It was very hard to miss; she was very big and gorgeous, at least to America, so her presence stood out like a sore thumb.

It was the same eagle that had been at his bedside when he had woken up in Russia's room, bandaged, in pain, and worst of all naked. It had been the same eagle that had been by his side during his childhood years when he had been alone and on the battlefields when he was fighting for his independence. It was the same eagle he looked towards to as inspiration and same eagle chosen to be his national animal.

He had always called her Shanook.

When he started being more and more aware of her presence as a child, he had been heavily influenced by the Indians living nearby. They had even fed him, clothed him, and taught him some of their words. The Natives lived by a very gorgeous rule that England never really taught him as he grew. And that was the preciousness of all living things. After killing wolves or cattle they would always thank it before eating. They seemed to have very strong relationship with them. America never realized how odd it was until he began living with England. They had spirit animals and animal gods. It was now all as absurd to him now as a man. Back then though he listened to every word they said with great interest. Possibly because his only friends had been animals.

Early on Shanook soon became his number one favorite though as all the other animals would soon die of old age, predators, or something else…. It was odd to him that she never died. Maybe she was immortal too for she always looked healthy and colorful. America never really knew how to tell the age of an eagle, but she sure hadn't lost any of his spunk. Suddenly she made a loud screech and caught the attention of Johnson, now next to America.

He stared at it with fascination and then drew his gun up.

"That'll look pretty good on my wall," he lifted his gun and pointed it right at the bird, seconds away from pulling the trigger.

"Don't!"

America quickly pushed Johnson's gun in the other direction. Johnson looked right into America's eyes, eyes that seemed to be burning with anger and disgust.

"Do you have to kill every little thing you see?" he growled.

Johnson starred at him perplexed; it had only been a minute ago that he himself had killed something. Why was he getting so sensitive about it suddenly? However, Johnson lowered his gun.

"Sorry, sir," he muttered.

America snorted; the guy had been kissing his ass the whole day. It was getting very tiresome. And the look in his eyes as though he didn't know what he was doing wrong was what pissed America off even more.

Johnson started walking forward, back to the base. His slow, humiliated walk was what made America feel suddenly guilty. For the past months, he was having short fuses with everyone. It was like the tiniest thing ticked him off and he didn't understand why. The kid was only curious and, quite frankly, America could see a lot of himself in him.

He looked back up towards branches, watching the grand magnificent bird make eye contact with him for an unusual amount of time before flying off.

NOTES

**He insisted that England must do it for the good of his people due to the recent war scare he had with Russia. **

The Pandjeh incident of 1885. Russia basically took some land or something…England got pissed….oh god, just wiki it or something.

**On and off again the relationship between the two countries would be good one moment and then bad the next**

You know what…I really don't know jack about British and French relations during this time. I just searched online and it kind of gave me confusing dates and incidents. It seems they were like this. I just know around this time they were fighting for land in Africa as well. One year it seems they're okay with each other, the next they hate each other. I love that kind of relationship they have because of it though. It's not as complex as much as it is interesting. It makes for good characters.

"**Dahomey's pals have been such bullies to me in Africa!" **

France recently won a war in Africa, earning the country of Dahomey into their territory. If you want to learn more about it, it was called The First Franco-Dahomean War and it happened in this year! (1890)

**They were all making their presence very much known with the laughter and yelling and shouting. How obnoxious…He felt like an old man among teenagers. **

I read a comment by a British man on the internet about how went to live in America and felt out of place. He said he felt like he was much more mature than everyone else (Including the older people!) and referred to America and its residents as the teenagers of the world. I just loved this metaphor so much I had to put it in!

**After killing wolves or cattle they would always thank it before eating. They seemed to have very strong relationship with them. America never realized how odd it was until he began living with England. They had spirit animals and animal gods. **

This is true with a lot of Native American tribes. I can remember my teacher back in middle school saying that Europeans and the Native Americans looked at the land very differently. Because of religion, Europeans saw where they lived as a curse. We got thrown out of the Garden of Eden, so we were doomed to walk the earth in something less than that. The Native Americans on the other hand, loved the land and worshiped it. It was beautiful to them.


	6. Chapter 6

When England awoke the next morning in his bed he was startled to see France sleeping just feet away in a red Victorian style chair. At first it was the chair that threw him off; it seemed like some cheap imitation from something in his house. And then he remembered he was still in America.

God forsaken America. _That's _what was wrong about that chair…

And then he saw France. Actually _saw_ him. That damn frog he hated since he was a boy, sleeping just a feet away from him. What the hell was he doing here?

And then he remembered last night.

He didn't drink that much alcohol so he hadn't been drunk. The Frenchman on the other hand was a clear mess. At almost two in the morning, he could barely walk in a straight line. England had no choice but to take him back. He remembered putting him in that chair to sleep for the night and then plopping down on his bed still in his day clothes, exhausted from the day.

Now looking back at it, England wondered why he did such a thing. Maybe the title of gentleman of Europe was finally woven into him, for he would have never done it centuries before. It would have been a laugh to leave him on the street where the yanks could do as they pleased to him. He wondered why he even started of thinking of France's well-being. Perhaps because France was clearly out of his element too. They _both_ missed Europe. Which begged another question.

England got out of bed and went to where France was sleeping. He had his legs crossed and his hand was the only thing keeping his head up. England shook his shoulder hard.

"Nooo…." France moaned. England stepped back, observing the human mess. It was clear he wasn't tired. Just hung-over. Maybe he had been awake a lot longer than England had but just sat there in the chair in misery.

"You've got a headache?"

France nodded. "_Dieu_, who is that?" he suddenly snapped, his accent as strong as ever.

"It's England, you git."

France opened his eyes.

"What? Really?"

"Yes, will you get up?"

"What are you doing here?"

England signed and walked over to the closet, looking for suitable clothing for the day.

"I was about to ask you the same question."

France yawned as he stretched his arms.

"Hmmm?"

"You never told me last night why you were in America."

"You didn't either, _baudet…"_

England looked back at him. He still looked clumsy and confused. Then again, that was also part of his character. After centuries of being around each other however, it soon got easier for England to know when he really was buzzed. He looked sternly at France again.

"Why are you here?"

France rubbed his face. "I can come and please as I want. I don't need you to watch over me. Though if you cared about me so much, it is rather flattering…."

"HA!" England yelled at his face. And then a long silence followed. Somewhat embarrassed, England went back to looking through his drawer.

"A lot of my people came to start over here," France said suddenly. "There's a sort of alluring thing about America to them. I'm sorry to say it makes me somewhat confused…"

"Well, there's a lot of land here up for the grabbing, maybe that's what they're after," England tried to reassure him. He had noticed the huge wave of immigration to America. The Italians, Lithuanians, French, etc.

"Have a lot of your people settled here too? Is that why you're here?"

England paused for a moment. Should he tell him why he was really here? It couldn't hurt but it seemed more like a private matter. No, he couldn't have France involved in any of it. It would end up being too much of a burden. Either way though, there were a ton of his own people that came to live here too. In great numbers their seemed to swarm across the Atlantic to his son's house. Why had they gone? What was so great about his house?

"Don't get me wrong, _ami_" France started. "I love my _cheri _America, but I'm failing to see what's so great about it here."

England huffed in agreement.

"You'll be happy to know, my people here are still as French as ever though and proud of it. Too bad their children will be Americanized though."

England nodded. He suddenly paused and then took a deep breath.

"I'm going back to my home today."

It was the first time France looked over to him. "Good for you. It does no good for us to stay here. I'll just visit my _favori_ Canada for a moment, and then I'm off. We should travel home together!"

England was saved the awkward moment when a loud knocking at the door was heard. Stuart, however, had already let himself in.

"There's a gentleman at the door for you, sir."

England nodded, and finished buttoning up his jacket.

"You're doing hard work in trying to convince this nation that you're proper and charming," France smirked. "_Menteur_, I know the true you. You still like have events where you chase wheels of cheese down hills I bet!"

"Sod off!" England yelled and walked out of the room. He heard France mutter a last something to him but he was already out of ear shot.

That already seemed like enough France for the day. He had done his duty. France could properly think for himself again, so England could finally do whatever he wanted to do. And since yesterday afternoon he had made up his mind.

There was no use staying here anymore. There was too much happening back at home and he grew lonely being apart from it. As he walked down the stairs towards the front door, he wondered why he had been so interested in America's matters at all. For almost a century he had kept that boy far from his mind. He needed to be treated like any other country now. One that choose to either be The United Kingdom's ally or enemy. England didn't care which one it would be as long as America just chooses already so they could establish whatever relationship it was that they had. It was getting tiresome and confusing.

He checked his sleeves as he got to the bottom and the next second America was standing right before him in the open doorway. England stopped in his tracks, almost looking around himself to see if anyone else was seeing what he was. When he looked back, America was still there. All dressed sharply in a uniform England had never seen before. A hint of it looked too much like confederate attire.

America's eyes fell to the ground as England scanned him. He could still see the scars on his face and hands and the almost dead look in his eyes. It was as if England were staring at a ghost.

"I heard you were still in town so I came to see you," America said, his voice startling the atmosphere for both of them. England just stared at him puzzled. Was that really the first thing that came out of his mouth?

"Why?" England couldn't stop himself from asking. America didn't answer, a long pause ensuing. Luckily France came out to fill the void. His loud footsteps could be heard from the top of the stairs.

"_Amerique_!" he almost stumbled. "We were _just_ talking about you!

America looked at England.

"Don't listen to a word he says," England sneered. "Chap got a little too heavy with his drinking so I had to look after him."

Like he had done to England last night, France threw his arms around America and hugged him closely.

"Oh. Look at you! You've grown so tall! _Un homme_…..But your face!"

He traced his fingers down America's cheeks, over his scars.

"What happened?"

"Nothing much," America said.

"You cut yourself shaving?" France asked. "You should grow it out like me; the women find it very desirable and gorgeous. It's the latest fashion trend in Europe."

"What are you talking about?" England said, "You've worn that dreadful thing for centuries."

"I can't help being ahead of the times."

"I didn't know you were here France." America said.

"_Quoi? _I came to see you and Canada of course! I'm your big brother, aren't I?"

England almost cringed. He hated always hated when France said that. It sounded so wrong coming from that man's mouth.

"More like an uncle I think," America grinned. It was the first time in perhaps decades England had seen America smile. It seemed to whirlwind him back in time again for a split second to the days when he was still his colony. He loved that smile but it had been so long since it had been directed at him. "You should've told me you were here; we could've had a few rounds."

France nodded signing. England could've help but feel a twinge of jealously at those words. France had definitely moved up to friend status with America. It instantly seemed to turn England into that crude person again as he felt the need to make his presence remembered.

"France and I can't stay. We're actually leaving today," he said with his head raised. He was almost taken aback when he saw America raise an eyebrow. He could almost see the boy's mind thinking and rethinking this. There was almost some dark sort of intelligence in his eyes that England had when he was his age. "Is that so?"

"_Oui_, so sad yet true," France nodded. "It pains me to be away from my people for so long…"

"Canada's a good place to go to then," America grinned. "We should really get together again."

A bird chirped outside in the distance as a wave of long silence followed. America seemed to be shifting uncomfortably back and forth on his feet, his eyes to the ground. England, on the other hand, had his head somewhat raised and eyes up. France didn't seem to even notice the mood and kept smiling.

"See you later then," America said quite quickly. He turned around rather awkwardly and started to walk off towards the door. The uneasy feeling didn't leave until America had shut the door behind him.

England signed. "That was odd…"

"You're telling me!" France spat. "It was like being in the same room as a divorced couple!"

"Shut up," England said and started back up the stairs.

"_He_, where are you going?"

England turned his head. "Home."

"What?"

England stopped in his tracks, confused. "Well, yes…didn't we just agree to that?"

When France didn't answer, he continued to walk back up to his room. He didn't even hear or notice France following him. He just couldn't be in this atmosphere any longer. He got to his room and looked around for his things and started gathering things up.

"What do you mean you're leaving?" France questioned.

"I'm going back home," England rolled his eyes. "Honestly, are you still so hung over you forgot already?"

He looked at France's face and saw a confused and almost disgusted look on his face.

"No!" he almost yelled. "Stop this. You know very well what America was trying to do."

"What?" England asked annoyed.

"Why do you think he came over here?"

England hesitated. "I don't know…to say goodbye I suppose…"

"No, you _feinte_," France shook his head, his hand to his head. "Didn't you see the look in his eyes?"

England was now getting angry. He was getting tired of this game of questions.

"No, in fact I didn't."

"You two are one in the same," France moved closer to him. "Too proud to admit your true feelings."

"Don't lecture me on this," England turned to face France, his mind rage increasing, feeling confronted. "Don't talk to me about his _feelings_…I know his feelings and I know more about him than you'll ever know the rest of your life."

"Then why aren't you staying?"

"Staying for what?"

France snorted. "_Tais-toi! _Even America said he didn't know I was here. Why would he come to you all of a sudden today?"

England paused. That was a good question. A very good question. But he would never let France know it.

"I've been here all goddamn month and he never stopped by, you git. He wanted to tell me goodbye."

France titled his head and seemed to consider this.

"You both do have too much pride," he said.

"Look who's talking," England sneered.

"I don't know why it's hard to admit when you want to be around each other."

"I just bloody well told you, you bastard!" England now yelled. France had finally hit a nerve. "I've been here this whole time, waiting to see if he wanted anything to do with me. He obviously doesn't, so sod off!"

"That's not what I saw at all!" France smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "He looked like he wanted to talk to you about something…."

"What?" England asked.

"I don't know," France shrugged. "You apparently have to find that out for yourself."

England didn't answer. He had had enough of the conversation. He went back to gathering his things, but France lingered by, not saying a word, just standing there like the elephant in the room.

"I can tell he still cares about you," France said. "And you still care about him."

"Of course I do," England said, trying to hide the shock from within him. Was it that obvious that everyone could see it? First Russia had said it, now France has said the exact same thing…

"Then be a father and help him!" France said. The tone in his voice sounded like now he was getting annoyed at this back and forth thing. Before England could answer, France turned around and walked out the door angrily. England could still hear the French man mumbling as he walked away.

* * *

America started walking down the beaten dirt road with his head held down. It seemed like he had had it in this position a lot these days. It was a pain in the ass to hear it from everyone else because he always had to provide the same reply; he was just exhausted and tired lately. That was all.

But people seemed to believe it dampened his behavior. He wasn't spending time around his people as much and he sure as hell talked a lot less to everyone. For some reason it angered him whenever someone told him he seemed depressed or lonely. Nothing about his personality had changed; he was still the same person. But even when he entered a room with men he had known for more than ten years there was a great tension felt. As though they longed to see the old America. The energetic and free spirited one.

Why did they want him to always be this way? There were other sides to him, so he didn't need to explain himself again and again to his own people. He didn't need to be bombarded with questions like why he was alone much more than usual; why he always seemed sleepy; why he was spending less and less time outside. He had pretty much proven himself a cowboy up to this point in his history.

But the old west seemed to be dying lately, as many Americans made it apparent in their daily gossip. It hurt America even more to hear such things. He began wondering more and more how countries dealt with things like it. Then again, the printing press wasn't invented until the 1500's. Was it a German man who made it?

_Oh, who knows_…America thought. It started getting harder remembering certain things.

He could almost see a wall forming up between his people and him, their relationship making less and less sense…

It could be that he was just stubborn and that they were right. Maybe he _wasn't_ himself lately. Yet even at times when America could see it, he still was angry. Why did he have to act like this? Why did he have to act like such a brat? _Why couldn't he have just…?_

America signed.

Why couldn't he be a man and swallow his hate for England and make up? Why did it always have to be so awkward and hard, so stupid and terrifying to just talk to him? He was almost there, he tried…

Then France kind of got in the way. Well, maybe that meant something.

Still, it was hard for him to get his mind of England the past two weeks since the day he woke up in Russia's house. God, if only Russia had found him, everything would've been okay. He wouldn't have been obliged to tell him anything, Russia at least knew about one's privacy…

But even Russia said he owed it to England. And as he lived more and more in these days of Indian wars with their hatred for everything European, the more he seemed to defend his father's blood. His European side. That's what a big part of him was. And there was nothing barbaric about them, bad, or cruel. And he would've known England would've agreed with him, England had always said they were savages.

America had been so tempted to ask accompany him to an Indian reservation the government had put up nearby. To prove to himself that it _was_ right. He was making them into model Americans after all. What was wrong with that?

As he walked on he grew more and more angry and his sudden affection for England grew more and more. Why did he always have to be so stupid? Why didn't he just make up? He just needed someone, anyone to tell him that he was right…but it was always so hard and _stupid_ and he never knew what to say to make up for those hundred years. He never knew what England could say that could make up for those hundred years._ But it didn't matter now, he just needed someone! _

He had never wanted so much the comfort of his father.

NOTES

"**A lot of my people came to start over here," France said suddenly**

I don't think I need to explain this to you XD Basically if you know American history, this was the great immigration wave. I DO think I read somewhere that the French particularly at this time came to America.

"_**Menteur**_**, I know the true you. You still like have events where you chase wheels of cheese down hills I bet!" **

Now, this is all coming from memory, so please forgive me. But I remember some time ago watching the news and them talking about an event in a small town in England where people get together and actually _do _this. It's some tradition or something. They throw a wheel of cheese down the hill and a group of people chase after it and whoever gets it first wins. And apparently THE CHEESE ISN'T EVEN REAL! They used to use real cheese but it was too hard or something and people kept getting hurt…? I don't know…it was just the weirdest thing ever. The only reason I think they even reported about it was because this year a guy from America actually WON. He was dressed in all red, white and blue too. Look it up if you want to learn more. I don't know if this goes back that far, I just included it because England seems to have some of the weirdest events like this.

**When he looked back, America was still there. All dressed sharply in a uniform England had never seen before. A hint of it looked too much like confederate attire. **

He's basically just wearing dark blue…

**But the old west seemed to be dying lately, as many Americans made it apparent in their daily gossip. **

FACT. The old west was kind of ending around this time to make way for the industrial revolution. Cowboy America was just starting to put on his suit for the twentieth century.

**America had been so tempted to ask accompany him to an Indian reservation the government had put up nearby. To prove to himself that it **_**was**_** right. He was making them into model Americans after all. **

The government put up schools and reservations for exactly this reason. To try to get the Indian out of them. Other's where just relocations for the Indians the government gave them. Sadly most of those reservations were in very poor condition and it was hell for the native Americans. Lots of sickness, lots of dying, etc.


End file.
